


metamorphosis

by ionthesparrow



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Curtain Fic, Kid Fic, M/M, Oviposition, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-17 05:53:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11269272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: the slow slide of what life was, into something else





	metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [addandsubtract](https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/gifts).
  * Inspired by [where nothing stays buried](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8844418) by [addandsubtract](https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract). 



> this fic is an unofficial sequel to addandsubtract’s [where nothing stays buried](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8844418). I like to think it stands on it’s own, but read that fic anyway, because it’s amazing. 
> 
> addandsubtract: your writing is not only amazing & imaginative & crammed full of delightful pathos (& hot), but also makes me want to be a better and braver writer. Thank you for letting me play in your universe (and sorry if this is the least surprising exchange fic ever) 
> 
> additionally, thank you to the challenge organizers. you guys are the greatest. <3 <3 <3 
> 
> **Content warning:** [please see tags]

* * *

 

Jokinen goes down on the last day of a road trip, during the game day skate, which is at two p.m. Vancouver time, which makes it five p.m. in Springfield, where Kyle gets the call. 

Tommy says, “We’re flying back after the game tonight. Dale wants you to get on a plane and meet us in Florida.” 

Five p.m. gives Kyle just enough of a heads-up to pack, finagle a ride down to Hartford, and catch the last flight out of Bradley International, with not a lot of time to spare. 

Which means it’s a good thing he has this down to a fine art. 

_Call Up of Unknown Duration Packing List:_

_Skates. Backup skates. Backup skate laces. Socks. Ankle tape. Shin guards. Sock tape. Stick tape. Duct tape. Pants. Shorts. Jock. Cup. Gold Bond. Under Armour shirt. Backup Under Armour shirt. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Gloves. Backup gloves. Mouth guards, assorted. Ibuprofen. Tylenol PM. Lucky screwdriver. His good suit. Coat, gloves, scarf, and hat suitable for winter in Massachusetts. Jacket suitable for winter in Florida._

On the other hand, the good thing about a tight timetable, is that there isn’t any time to worry. The only option is forward, because there’s not time for anything else. Every second is needed. On his way home from the rink, Kyle takes advantage of a red light to text Mack that he’s not gonna make their dinner plans, and at the next red light, texts his brother Curt, _up again._

Kyle parks in the loading zone in front of the building with a brief but heartfelt prayer, scrubs the winter sludge off his boots, and, both hands full, shoulders his way inside. 

Their apartment is already all done up in holiday decor, and it even looks halfway decent because Juho’s girlfriend is in town. Geometric mobiles made out of what looks like straw are strung up everywhere. Juho told Kyle what they were called in Finnish at least three times, but Kyle can’t remember the name now. 

Imported Finnish holiday traditions apparently also means that every flat surface in apartment is covered with a fuck-ton of candles. Alternatively, the candles could be an effect of combining drying hockey gear draped over the dining room chairs and a girlfriend in the same house. Kyle wastes precious seconds scanning the room, looking for somewhere to drop his bag, or even just his keys. The search is fruitless. The bag goes on the floor in the hall. The keys go on top of the bag. 

In the living room, all three of his roommates are slouched in a row on the couch. All three are motionless, silent, gazes fixed on the screen with a devout attention that means it’s either the Victoria Secret Fashion Show or Shark Week. 

Addressing no one in particular, Sena says, “I love the way they move.” 

Eyes never wavering from the screen, Juho adds, “They’re so graceful.” 

Sam rests his chin in his hand. “To be honest, they scare the shit out of me.” 

None of them turn at his entrance. Kyle clears his throat. “Can one of you give me a ride to Hartford?” 

“It’s my turn,” Juho mumbles, still too distracted to even sound regretful. 

“Kiitos,” Kyle says. Which he has managed to remember. 

Belatedly, Sena asks, “You up again?” 

As if there was any other reason to take a spontaneous road trip to that joy-packed jewel of city, Hartford. “I’m up again,” Kyle confirms, and heads for the stairs. 

It takes roughly thirty seconds to grab his pre-packed personal bag, a minute to make sure he re-stocked it with deodorant, absorbent pads, and clean underwear. And then maybe another minute and a half to change into his plane uniform: collared shirt. Slacks. No tie. Thank god. 

It’s a boring uniform, but sometimes boring is good. Sometimes choice is just added stress. 

Winding his scarf carefully back into place, Kyle catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. This year has been a strange one, and it always takes half a second for the image in the glass to register as him. It’s not a college kid’s face that looks back at him anymore. The knowledge of all the ways he’s changed doesn’t always sit easy. Or maybe it’s just that he’s not exactly where he thought he’d be. 

He brushes at the hair at the back of his head, which after a day trapped under a cap, has its own ideas about obeying gravity. It’s thinner than Kyle would like it to be, although fortunately not as thin as Curt’s. 

Change is inevitable, Kyle tells himself. The hair, and – he casts a quick up and down glance at the rest of him, and gives his reflection a wry approximation of a smile. And all the rest of it, too. 

He takes the stairs two at time, emerging back into the living room to say, “Try not to burn the place down while I’m gone. And the trash goes out tomorrow.” 

There’s no response from the lumps on couch. 

“Did you hear me?” 

Sam deigns to twist, looking back at him over his shoulder. “Trash. Tomorrow. Got it.” 

Kyle rolls his eyes. Then he looks at his bags, running down his mental checklist one last time. It’s gonna be a long night. Kyle sighs. 

Sam snorts, and when Kyle looks up, he’s frowning. “Don’t you dare complain. Remember – ” He wags a finger at Kyle, “ – you’re living the dream.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Kyle knocks Juho’s shoulder. “You ready?” 

Juho casts one last loving look at either a hammerhead or high heels, and gets up. 

“Tell my life partner I say hi,” Sena calls after them. 

Then they’re off. 

 

 

Kyle’s ritual for night flights is simple: a glass of red wine and half a Xanax, because he’s too old to be too proud. 

As soon as he’s safely seated, he scans through the brief article the beat posted about his call up, and texts Curt: 

_diminutive: 1; undersized 2; feisty 1. What’s the count on the season?_

Curt texts back a thumbs up. Then: _diminutive: 7; undersized 9; feisty 3; bubble 4; ‘for a smaller guy’ 3; 5’9 11._

Kyle tells him, _you’re gonna owe me so many steak dinners by the time this season is over_

Curt replies, _we may have to up the conversion rate._ A pause, and then, _you staying with nick again?_

Kyle shuts off his phone. Conveniently, it’s time for take off. 

 

 

He is staying with Nick, and after taking a cab from the airport, Kyle lets himself in with the key he never relinquished. 

Nick had said, “I mean – it doesn’t make any sense for you to stay in a hotel every time you’re up.” He had paused then, making that particular face he always did when he felt he’d put his foot in his mouth. “Or, I mean, unless you wanted to get your own place down here?” 

And trust Nick to be so averse to reality as to think that was an option. Kyle had bitten his lip, counted to ten, and said, “I’m definitely not getting a place in Florida anytime soon.” 

Nick’s mouth twisted. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but in the end, he had just shrugged and said, “Well then, I’m fine with you staying here when you’re up if you are?” 

Fine with it. Sure. Kyle is being fine with a lot of things this year. 

He waves at Mrs. Farhi, who lives next door. She’s on her front porch, an icy glass of something beading sweat in her hand. The porch lights reveal her carefully tended bougainvillea and birds-of-paradise. Kyle remembers when those beds had first gone in. She’d come over to apologize to them about the commotion. She waves at him now. She probably doesn’t realize anything’s changed. 

At the top of the stairs, he turns right instead of left. He sleeps. 

 

 

When Kyle comes downstairs in the morning, Nick is already up, puttering around the kitchen. 

Kyle hesitates in the doorway, surprised. The team got in late last night, long after Kyle himself had passed out. And even when he wasn’t up until almost three in the morning, it’s not like Nick ever gets up any earlier than he has to. 

“Good morning,” Kyle says, from the doorway. 

Nick looks up. “Good morning. Did you sleep okay?” 

That’s one consequence of having been raised in Minnesota: no matter what they’ve been through, or what they are to each other, they’ve always been civil. 

“Decent. You?” 

Nick smiles. There are dark circles under his eyes that stand out against his pale face. And there’s something else that never changes: Nick himself. Legs longer than the bible, a permanent smile on his face, and never could get a tan. “Coffee?” 

Kyle nods. “Thanks. Practice at ten?” 

“Yep.” Nick gives a breathy pop to the end of the word. He pours coffee for both of them. He pushes the sugar towards Kyle without having to be asked. 

“Tommy texted to say there’s gonna be skate and video for the scratches and extras after practice. I can catch a ride home with Harper or Malgin or somebody.” 

Nick shrugs, eyes down in what looks like deep, philosophical contemplation of his coffee. “Who knows. I might be right there with you.” 

Kyle laughs. A little darker than Nick’s usual humor but god knows it’s been a weird year for all of them. 

 

 

In the locker room, there’s a green practice jersey hanging in Nick’s stall. 

Same color as Kyle’s. And Harper’s. Same as Malgin and McKegg and Thorty’s. Green for fourth line plus extras. And for Kyle, most likely, green for _go upstairs. Go directly to jail; do not collect ice time._

Kyle hesitates before crossing the room to where they’ve set up his stall. He’s missed watching the Panthers’ last few games, but it doesn’t seem possible that Nick’s play has been so poor as to get bumped to the fourth line. That’s not the kind of thing that happens to Nick. That’s the kind of thing that happens to Kyle. But the jersey is right there, clear as day, hanging like a green flag of failure in Nick’s stall. 

It’s bad enough that Kyle’s uncomfortable in his own skin, but now the rest of the world has go topsy-turvy too? 

He turns to look behind him, and because he’s watching, Kyle gets to see the drop in Nick’s shoulders. The shift of Nick’s smile into something more fixed. 

Nick goes to his stall without a word and begins the mechanical work of stripping. 

The sounds of the locker room rush to fill Kyle’s ears. The heady, sweat-smelling chaos rises back into his awareness, and Kyle gives in to it, turns his attention away from Nick, and begins to undress as well. 

He’s slow at this. Slow with a self-consciousness he hasn’t felt since he was a freshman at UMN. Kyle sits, tugging his shoes off, socks following. He shrugs off the light-weight sweater that passes for winter gear in Florida, and pauses again, looking across the room at Nick. 

Shane Harper’s stall is next to Nick’s. Kyle watches him pluck at Nick’s green jersey, watches him sock Nick in the shoulder. Playful. But with enough force that Nick has to brace to keep from falling. “Don’t worry, Bjugs. If you get scratched, I can show you the way to the press box. It’s my home away from home.” 

Nick manages a laugh. “I’ve spent games in the press box before.” 

“Yeah,” Harper allows. “But it sure looks different when you’re healthy.” 

The corners of Nick’s mouth tighten. It’s hard to believe Harper can’t see it. But then again, no one down here has been watching Nick quite as long as Kyle has. 

Nick smiles, and even laughs again, and if you didn’t really know him, you’d think that meant he was happy. 

What Kyle needs, is to push this conversation towards something else. Anything else. But as the perpetual New Guy in the locker room, it’s not his place to tell Harper to shut up. Besides, Harper is both fundamentally a decent guy, and the guy most likely to punch someone for taking a run a Kyle on the ice. Not someone he wants to piss off. 

Fortunately, like half of therapy is learning to re-direct negative thoughts, and when it comes to hockey players, there are least three topics guaranteed to be an immediate re-direct of just about anything: golf, women, and ripping other hockey players. 

Kyle interjects, “Maybe you wouldn’t be so familiar with the press box if McQuaid hadn’t dropped you so quick the last time you were out.” 

“That fucker,” Harper says, turning mid sentence to point at Kyle, “got in _one_ lucky punch. No technique in that. He suckers people, that’s all he does.” 

“As bad as Boll?” Kyle eggs. 

Harper’s eyes narrow in judgment of Kyle’s ignorance. “ _Way_ worse than Boll.” 

“No way – ” Griffith breaks in. “That guy’s the worst in the league – ” 

That’s all it take to get them off and running. Kyle throws one more quick glance at Nick, but Nick’s eyes are down, hands going through the long-established patterns of putting on his gear. 

Kyle should really be doing the same. If he takes much longer, he’s going to be late. Which is not okay – since it’s his job as a call up to be early to everything. No way to put it off any longer. Kyle hauls his shirt over his head. Undoes his belt and drops pants and shorts in one quick motion. 

Some of his teammates’ gazes land on him and skitter away. Some of them look longer, careful though, out of the corner of their eyes. Naturally, it’s Trocheck who has something to say. “Well.” His head tilts looking at Kyle. “At least no one’s gonna give you shit for being pasty.” 

Kyle rolls his eyes. “Thanks.” He pitches a towel at Trocheck. “Now eyes up.” 

Trocheck obligingly looks away. Nick, though, Nick’s eyes stay on him until Kyle turns his back. 

 

 

“You got dinner plans?” 

Nick startles. Nick was silent the whole ride home from practice. He’d gone straight to his room to nap after, and now he’s standing in the middle of his kitchen, phone in hand, where he’s been motionless and staring into the middle distance for at least a solid minute. 

Nick looks at Kyle, and then down at the phone in his hand, and then back at Kyle. “I was gonna order something. Guess I spaced.” His face spreads into one of those wide, goofy grins. 

“Sure.” Kyle isn’t fooled. But it’s not exactly his place anymore to pry. 

Nick is quiet through the meal. Quiet enough for Kyle to shift in his chair, long for his phone, and to finally break down and ask. “You alright? You’ve been quiet.” 

There’s another half beat of blankness before Nick manages a grin. “Long roadie. Still jetlagged, I guess.” He stands abruptly. “I’m gonna – I’ve got – ” He trails off. “I’ve got some chores. I’ve been meaning to straighten up the garage.” 

Kyle knows what the garage looks like. The garage is a tangled mess of fishing poles, truck parts, wetsuits, scattered tools, and hockey gear in various stages of disrepair. Kyle also knows that Nick likes it like that. Something about the mess is comforting. The garage is the one place in the house Kyle never even tried to organize, even when he did live here. 

From beyond the door to the garage, there is a loud, sharp clatter. A banging noise that sounds like something heavy being knocked over. Or maybe, something being thrown. Kyle is half out of his seat before he changes his mind and sits again. 

His hands twist on the table in front of him. It’s not his place to try to make Nick talk about it. Not that he was ever particularly successful at doing that, even when it was. Kyle’s never been particularly good at managing anybody’s feelings. He’s never been particularly good at managing his _own_ shit – and that’s quite enough of that train of thought. Kyle sits up straight and takes a breath, and then another. Nothing is on fire. He’s managing just fine. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. 

His phone dings. Curt has forwarded him a Buzzfeed article with the title, _The Top Ten Reasons People Don’t Respond to Text Messages_. 

Kyle answers him with, _what number is ‘they have better things to do’?_ And then, _yeah I’m at nick’s._

_How are you?_

_Fine. I literally just finished a mental health exercise._

_Good. Love you. Let me know if I should watch tomorrow._

Kyle closes his eyes. Eat. Sleep. Wake. Take warm ups if they let him. Shower. Press box. Work hard. Head down. Good attitude. Those are all doable things. Just break down the days into steps, and nothing’s impossible. 

 

 

He’s scratched for the game, which is no surprise. But so is Nick, which is. 

The silence in the press box feels icier than usual. Nick is wearing a carefully pressed suit, and an even more carefully pressed smile. He shakes hands with the reporters. He laughs at their jokes. 

Kyle says his own hellos, and then sits, setting phone and coffee on the table in front of him. 

Harper drops into the seat next to him. He leans over, says under his breath, “Your breeding plumage is showing.” 

Kyle tugs at the collar of his shirt. The streaks of lurid red and murky indigo wind all the way up to his throat now, delicate tendrils of color that peak out above his collar. He mutters back, “there’s not a whole hell of a lot I can do about it.” 

Harper shrugs. He’s busy adding packet after packet of sugar to his coffee. “You really ought to just bite the bullet and take care of it. The color’d fade if you did.” 

Kyle resists the urge to roll his eyes. He lowers his voice even further. “That’s not exactly easy when week to week I never know whether I’m gonna be here or in Springfield.” 

Harper makes a face. “Shit. I hadn’t thought of that. How many times they pulled you up now?” 

“I don’t know. I lost count.” Kyle pauses. “Sena says hi, by the way.” 

Harper looks pleased at that, then his head tips, lip jutting out thoughtful. “Shitty planning on management’s part, though.” 

“Tell me about it.” Kyle and Harper share a long-suffering glance. 

“Management,” Harper says, shaking his head. 

Kyle sits back in his seat, stirring his coffee. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Nick, who quickly looks away. 

All at once, the memory is right there. Vivid and present. The time it was Nick. And Nick pressing into him. His hands on Kyle, and the stretch of Kyle’s body giving, opening to him, slick and shaking. 

Kyle can feel heat rise in his cheeks, and he turns back to stare into his coffee cup instead. He avoids looking at Nick, because Nick is probably thinking about the same thing. Nick is probably remembering the same thing. 

Kyle’s throat is so dry he can’t swallow. His whole body goes hot, skin flushed. He manages to bring the coffee to his lips, but the liquid is too sweet and too bitter all at the same time. He sets it down, and knits his fingers together before his hands can start to shake. This is not the place to be thinking about – any of this. 

Kyle coughs. “So. What do you think the deal is? Coach just mixing up the lines to mix something up?” 

Harper shrugs in response. “I don’t get paid to think.” 

Nick’s mouth slips into a frown. “It’s not like we’re winning, so something had to give.” His tone is sharp and bitter. 

Kyle backtracks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I wasn’t trying to be a dick – ” 

“I’m not upset,” Nick says. The words are clipped. 

Even Harper has the sense to let that go without comment. The three of them turn their eyes to the ice. The puck drops, but frustration continues to curdle in Kyle’s stomach. Nick’s not doing himself any favors by not admitting he’s upset. He needs to at least learn to have a sense of humor about it. If Kyle still got this twisted every time he was scratched or sent down he’d — well he’d probably be doing something with his degree. Or maybe he’d be abroad? He tries to imagine himself on some European team. Maybe he and Chad could play together. And even healthy scratched, sitting in a press box, that thought makes him snort. He reminds himself to text that to Curt later, so Curt can laugh at him. 

 

 

In what, these days, constitutes a medium-sized miracle, Kyle is still up several days later, when the season breaks for the winter holiday. 

It’s a special brand of awkwardness – traveling with someone over the holidays when you’re not together. Side by side, just like the happy couple they aren’t. 

“I mean, we could – not,” Nick offers. His laptop is open on the table in front of him. The screen waiting for him to hit CONFIRM PURCHASE. “But – ” 

But they’re driving from the same place to the same airport, and by the necessity a tight NHL schedule dictates: at exactly the same time on the same days. 

“No, it – ” Kyle resists the urge to shuffle his feet, and settles on a shrug. “It makes more sense this way.” 

Nick nods. A strained silence hangs between them. 

“You staying with your mom?” Kyle asks. 

The laptop screen gives Nick’s face a bit of a bluish glow. “Actually, I figured I’d go out to the cabin for a bit.” 

Kyle narrows his eyes. “By yourself?” Nick doesn’t like being by himself. Nick likes being around people. The more the better. Especially around the holidays. 

Nick brushes off the question. “You coming to mom’s dinner?” 

Janeen still invites Kyle to dinner. Because of course she does. 

Kyle is also supposed to spend time with his own parents. And he needs to drive out to Minnetonka to see Luc, who just had a baby. And to visit Matt, who just bought a house. His grandparents want to see him. As do his cousins. Plus Curt has already been making noises about taking the snowmobiles out. There’s barely enough time to do it all. There’s not enough time to do it all, really. 

Kyle scratches a mental line through those plans. A navigation app voice plays in his head: _recalculating._

Kyle says, “I’ll go out there with you. Help you get it habitable.” 

Nick avoids his eyes. “No. I’ll be fine. Thank you, though.” 

Kyle leans forward, hands on the table. “You’re gonna shovel the drive out, and start the furnace, and hook up the propane, and the water line, and start up the pump, clear the gutters, and the chimney, and buy wood, all by yourself?” 

The look of increasing irritation in the line of Nick’s mouth makes it clear he hasn’t thought through any of this. 

“Not to mention groceries. Is there even any food out there? The local shops shut down in winter.” 

Nick shrugs, gaze still down. “I think there are still venison steaks in the chest freezer.” 

“Nick.” Exasperation leaks into Kyle’s voice, but there’s still no response. Or at least, not in words, but Kyle can see where Nick’s knuckles are white, his mouth nothing more than a hard line. “I’ll go out there with you,” Kyle repeats quietly. 

“Fine,” Nick says, in a voice that suggests there is nothing fine about it. 

 

 

It’s snowing when they arrive. Kyle drives, so Nick can make an awkward series of phone calls about his impending no-show. Kyle tries to focus on the road – there are a series of tricky turns as they work their way up the bluff, and the snow that already blankets the woods to either side is starting to stick to the asphalt as well. Their rental SUV is struggling despite its all-wheel drive, and times like this Kyle wonders why getting away from it all ever became a thing. Apparently nothing says romance like fucking up your axles. 

But his attention keeps getting drawn back to the background noise of Nick trying to explain to his mom why he’s not coming home right away. He’s waited so long to call her that the reception is spotty; his responses half-shouted. 

Kyle can’t hear the other half of the conversation, but it’s easy enough to guess what Janeen’s saying, based on Kyle and Nick’s shared history. And Nick’s tone. 

“Wednesday,” Nick says, presumably in response to _“Well, when_ are _you coming here?”_

Nick looks briefly at Kyle and then back at the road. “Yeah.” _(“Is Kyle with you?”)_

Nick frowns. Out of the corner of his eye, Kyle catches a glimpse of his wrinkled brow and irritated expression. Nick looks at Kyle again, then says a very firm, “No.” 

Kyle doesn’t want to think about what that’s in response to. 

The last curve of the road gives way to a view of cabin, eaves and shingles already thickly covered with snow. Beyond that, they get a glimpse of the deck, with its view of the lake, and Kyle concedes that maybe nature isn’t all bad. He’d been with Nick when Nick had gone to checkout this property for the first time. They had stood on that deck, the sun coming down hot, and not another soul in sight. Everything was quiet, deep greens. No traffic, no planes overhead, no car stereos blasting, just the humming of insects and the lap of the water against the dock. The air was full of the cool smell of pine, and Nick had come up close behind him. Put his lips right up against the shell of Kyle’s ear, and in barely more than a whisper said, “It’s so pretty out here. Think of how nice it’ll be to have this spot. Just for us.” 

Kyle can still feel the sun. He can still feel the weight of Nick’s hand resting over his. 

He remembers sweating and swearing while dragging furniture up the front steps. How good those first, cold beers had been. He remembers arguing over Nick’s atrocious taste, and becoming convinced that Nick must be colorblind – had to be colorblind – to be making the choices he was. 

He remembers evenings of having their friends over, the sound of laughter and running footsteps as they raced each other off the end of the dock. How the water was bottle green and warm near the surface and so, so cool in the deeps. And on the nights when it was just the two of them, he remembers how the temperature dropped after the sun slipped away, and the hundred thousand strong chorus of tree frogs and cicadas, and more stars above them than Kyle thought he’d ever see. 

There’s none of that heat or sun today, though. The trees out front are bare, black skeletons. The wind has pushed the snow into drifts a couple feet deep in places, and where the earth has been scraped clean, it’s a dead gray-brown. Kyle turns into the drive, but doesn’t go very far up it. He’s not interested in getting stuck, and he ends up parked half in the street, but it’s not like there’s anyone else up here. He kills the engine and hesitates. He’s not excited about getting out of the warm car, or about the banging and prodding it’s going to take to get the pump going in this cold. But Nick has already undone his seatbelt and is pushing the door open. “I’m gonna go hit the breaker.” A blast of cold air signals his exodus from the car. 

Kyle watches him walk off towards the shadows at the side of the cabin. “I’ll start bringing this stuff in,” he calls after Nick. Not that Nick acknowledges him. 

Kyle grabs the bag of groceries they picked up on the way, and shoulders his bag. 

Inside, the cabin is dark. The air frigid. There are no decorations up. No lights or family waiting for them. The microwave and the coffee pot stand on the counter, unplugged, cords neatly coiled, waiting for summer. 

Kyle watches his breath puff out white in front of him and frowns. With any luck, he can convince Nick that one night here is enough. He drops the bags on the counter. He plugs the fridge in, crosses his fingers, and after a moment, it hums to life. He plugs the microwave in, too. Nothing they brought to eat requires much in the way of preparation beyond re-heating. Everything else can wait. He turns back toward the front room, looking to see if Nick has started shoveling. 

Nick is standing in the drive, shovel in hand, but he isn’t moving. His face is turned up to the sky. Heavy, white flakes land on his cheeks, his forehead. His eyes are closed, but he’s smiling. For once, a real smile. 

No sound comes in through the windows, and the light is starting to fade, but Kyle can tell it’s real. It doesn’t just change his face; every line in Nick has eased. 

Kyle takes a step toward the window, resting his hand on the frame. The entire time he’s been down in Florida, he hasn’t seen Nick look like this. And thinking back, it’s hard to remember when the last time he saw Nick this simply happy was. 

Kyle’s chest clenches hard, and he looks away. 

If he waits any longer to text Curt, Curt might very well send out a search party, so Kyle tells him, _staying with nick at the cabin tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow._

Curt’s response is immediate. _are you fucking serious?_

Kyle, willing to risk future chastisement via Buzzfeed article, turns his phone off. 

 

 

A fire crackling in the fireplace and cracking open a bottle of scotch do a lot to make the cabin feel more livable. 

Nick sits with his feet up, facing the fire. He holds his tumbler curled close to his chest, and he’s been nursing it slowly. “We never spent much time here in the winter.” His voice has a wistful ring to it. “It’s nice though.” 

Kyle is on the other sofa, curled under a UMN blanket that led a previous life covering one of their dorm room beds. He turns his own glass in his hands, watching Nick watch the fire. “Why’d you want to come out here?” 

Nick turns to look at him. “You don’t think it’s nice?” 

“It’s plenty nice, but – ” Kyle hesitates. The firelight is giving a ruddy cast to Nick’s skin, and making the shadows that much sharper. “It’s not like you to want to be alone. Especially not during the holidays.” 

Nick shifts, looking back toward the fire. He brings the glass up to his lips again. 

“What’s going on with you?” Kyle asks. 

“Why does something have to be going on?” Nick’s face is flushed, but otherwise perfectly, inarguably calm. “Everything is fine.” 

Maybe the flush is just the fire, or the alcohol. Maybe the tension Kyle’s been noticing is just the normal wear and tear of a long season. Except that’s bullshit. “Are you upset about how you’ve been playing?” He presses. “About the shit with Tallon? What?” 

Nick’s face doesn’t look quite so calm anymore. “You know, dwelling on shitty things doesn’t actually do anyone any good.” 

“Yeah, well, ignoring them isn’t doing you any good either.” Kyle sits up straighter. “Bottling stuff up like this fucks you up.” 

“Worked for me so far.” Nick’s words come out sarcastic; spit vaguely in the direction of the fire. 

“Oh, it’s worked for you, has it?” Kyle stares at him. “You realize this is why we aren’t together anymore, right?” 

Nick finally turns and looks at him. “The way I remember it, we aren’t together anymore because _you_ dumped _me_. Which, at the time – ” Nick’s voice is rising, “ – you said was because you had your own shit going on. Which you didn’t want to work out with me. So I don’t know where you get off talking about the importance of sharing – ” 

“I _did_ have my own shit going on. I _still_ have a lot of shit going on. But how was I supposed to feel like I could talk about how I was struggling, when nothing is ever wrong with you – ” 

Nick’s stares daggers back at him. His mouth twists into something bitter and sarcastic, the firelight sparking in his eyes. “Nothing ever _could_ be wrong with me. If something was wrong, I couldn’t tell you, because you couldn't handle it. One, little thing would go wrong, and I’d spend the next week trying to get you to calm down – ” 

“Well, I’m sorry it was such a hassle for you to have a boyfriend who couldn’t pretend everything was perfect all the time. Sorry I couldn’t hack it in the NHL or get by without popping pills, so that you could have that picture-perfect life – ” 

“That was you who had a problem with those things.” Nick’s shouting now. “That was never me. That was _you._ ” He jabs a finger into his own chest. “I never cared what league you were playing in. Or about anything else. I loved you. I loved every fucking, fucked up part of you, the best I could, and you were still miserable – ” 

“Nick – ” 

“How was I – ” Nick falters. “How was I supposed to add to that? I couldn’t. Not when you were already struggling.” He falls silent. 

Nick believes that. Nick would have built a whole world for Kyle if he could have, where nothing was ever wrong. He would have carried every last thing on his own shoulders – just because he thought he was making it easier for Kyle. “Nick,” Kyle tries again, his voice thick. Carrying all that weight. For both of them. “Nick, what’s going on?” 

Nick shakes his head. His eyes are red; he brings a hand up to them. 

“It’s okay.” Kyle edges closer to him. “Yes, I had my own shit, and yes, I’m still working on it, but I’m dealing with it. I’ve done a lot of work, and I can tell you ignoring the issue doesn’t make it go away.” He can see Nick’s throat working, and he moves closer still. “I’m here for you. I promise.” 

Face still hidden, Nick shakes his head again, and Kyle can see where his fingers are pressing hard into his flesh. 

“Nicky.” 

The sound of Nick’s first sob is awful, shuddering and choked. His shoulders curl, his body bends forward as if he’s trying to draw himself inward, to take up as little space as possible. 

Kyle reaches one hand cautiously towards him. His fingers brush against Nick’s shoulder, the lightest touch Kyle can manage. 

Nick gulps out another of those horrible, battering sobs. “I’m scared,” he says. The words are so warped, and Nick’s voice so rough that Kyle has to fight to understand him. 

“Nicky,” Kyle breathes again, and moves to curl against Nick’s side. He pulls Nick’s hand from his face, and Nick turns into Kyle’s shoulder instead. 

He mumbles against the fabric of Kyle’s shirt, “I don’t know where I’m going to play next year. I’ve only ever played in Florida, and if they don’t want me – I don’t know, I don’t know. I don’t even know if my head – what happens if something happens to my head again? How do I know if – if I’m done?” 

“And if I’m done,” Nick’s breath hitches; his whole body shakes. “If I’m done, I don’t have anything else. I don’t know what to do. I don’t have anything, or anyone – ” 

“You do,” Kyle says, trying to sound as firm and steady as he can when his own voice wants to tremble, and his own chest feels like it could break open. He wraps his arms tightly around Nick, and when Nick’s whole body starts to shake, Kyle holds him tighter still. 

Nick’s face is hidden, but Kyle can hear the stuttering, broken sounds of the battle to not cry being lost. 

“Sorry,” Nick mumbles in an unsteady voice, followed by the wet sounds of him clearing his throat, and the sensation of him tensing as he tries to draw himself together. 

If they’re just friends, Kyle should let go. A tight hug between friends who were once lovers isn’t out of the realm of ordinary. But Kyle can’t let go, and he doesn’t let go. He stays put with arms wrapped tight around Nick, rocking back and forth, guided by some instinct toward comfort. Kyle loves him. Kyle has always loved him, and if he couldn’t do this in the past, when he should have, when it was his job and his place, he’ll do it now. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Kyle tucks his face close to the top of Nick’s bent head, dropping the words next to his ear. “I told you, I got this. I’m here for you, and it’s going to be okay.” 

Nick’s breathing is steadier, but he doesn’t pull away from Kyle. Instead, Nick’s arms come around him, and his fingers wind into Kyle’s shirt. 

Moving slow – so slow and careful – the motion seems to take a lifetime, Kyle takes Nick’s face in his hands and turns it towards him. Nick’s cheeks are blotchy, his eyes bloodshot. Kyle is so close he can feel the heat coming off Nick’s body. He can hear the wet, unsteady sounds of his breathing, still laced with the faint smell of scotch. Nick is shifting, but he still isn’t moving away. And with every second, the possibility of them moving apart feels more and more distant. 

Nick reaches up, and very carefully touches the side of Kyle’s face. He runs his fingers through Kyle’s hair. 

Mirroring Nick’s movements, Kyle reaches out and brushes the tears from his cheeks. He can feel the rise and fall of Nick’s chest. He hears the rhythm of Nick’s breathing hitch. He leans in. 

Nick’s lips taste like salt. His arms pull Kyle closer, and those broad hands rest flat against Kyle’s back. Kyle kisses Nick’s forehead, his damp cheeks, his eyelids, his mouth again – lips open now, and ready, and waiting. Heat pools in Kyle’s stomach. “Nick – ” The name comes out raspy and low. 

Nick’s grip on him tightens, his body shifts against Kyle’s, and a need in Kyle rises hard and sharp. A shift in the gravity. A taste in the back of his throat. Heat racing over his skin. 

Nick groans. 

The heat in Kyle is focusing into a burning pit low in Kyle’s stomach, and around him the world is becoming too bright and too vivid. The taste of Nick’s skin is salt and sweet, scotch, a vague mint, and acidic pine. He can feel the leap of Nick’s pulse like a throb under his tongue. The couch is rough underneath him, and even the texture of his own shirt is suddenly like sandpaper against his skin. Kyle pulls it off, stripping out of it and hurling it away. 

Nick’s fingernails rake his back. 

Firelight makes every image unsteady. But even in the shadows, the long streaks of color in Kyle’s skin are gleaming. His blood pounds through his veins, shot full of need and desire that is part a familiar rush of want for Nick – who is his – his beloved – his partner, under his hands again – and part a briny tang, a wild, unfolding electricity under his skin that is entirely new. 

Underneath him, Nick is trying to extricate himself. With effort, Kyle falls back against the couch, panting. It’s work to keep his hands still, to keep his hips still. 

Nick pulls his shirt off, then his hands fall to his pants. He looks at Kyle and freezes. Kyle can see the want in his face. Uncertainty and need. Kyle holds out a hand towards him. 

Nick shucks his pants the rest of the way off, stepping out of them, kicking them carelessly to the side. He comes back to Kyle. His mouth returns to Kyle’s mouth, and his fingers move quick to Kyle’s belt buckle. 

Kyle pulls back, takes a breath to try to say something, even though he’s not sure what. A warning is unnecessary. A joke maybe – but Kyle’s mind can’t form one. In the end, all he manages is a tiny intake of breath. 

Kyle has missed this feeling – naked and stretched out next to Nick. The length of Nick’s body. The flush his skin takes on. The expression on his face when he looks at Kyle. 

Nick’s bare skin burns against his. Sweat springs between them even as the cold air brings up goosebumps across Kyle’s back. He rocks his hips against Nick’s, touching the familiar planes of his stomach, the soft flesh inside his thighs. Nick lifts into him, rising into each touch. 

But that foreign flavor is building in the back of Kyle’s throat. The tingle under his skin solidifying into a hum, a buzz growing impossibly loud in his ears, and he can feel a pull like an ocean current dragging at him. Kyle forces his fingers to loosen, splays his hand flat against Nick’s chest. “We should stop, I’m – ” 

Nick looks at him, meets his eyes. Then he drags his fingers across Kyle’s skin, pressing firm and deliberate into the long, discolored streaks that run the length of his body. His touch starts low, at the broad, vibrant washes of color at Kyle’s groin, with a pressure so hard it almost aches, and then rises and lightens. So that by the time he’s tracing the tendrils of color that lace Kyle’s throat, Kyle shivers under the faintness of the touch. 

He traces the whole length of Kyle. All of him. And all of Kyle is awake now. Attentive. Uncoiling. “Nick.” Kyle’s louder now, and he can hear the desperation in his own voice. 

There’s a rush of fluid, and a heady, distracting smell. Something like musk. Like seawater. Dank and thick. A tendril uncurls, rubbing first against Nick’s thigh. Sliding over him; exploring the flesh. “If we start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop – ” Kyle gasps. “Nick.” 

It swells, like it’s drawing nourishment from the contact with Nick’s body. Kyle is too afraid to even look down at what might be happening, and a dizzy lightheadedness is overtaking him. This need in him is done waiting, is done being put off, and Kyle is poised at the mouth of rapids, at a waterfall, a place with no turn-offs left – 

“Then do it,” Nick says. 

“We don’t have enough – ” Words are so hard. Words are impossible. Something slick is weeping out of him, and a fluid warmth runs through his muscles. Kyle feels so strong. He could sprint a hundred miles. He could scale a mountain. He could lift steel. Kyle feels himself teetering on the edge of a single-mindedness that is overwhelming. Each last strand of resistance battered and breaking like a spider web in a hurricane – 

“We’ve got six days.” Nick’s voice is a rough, throaty whisper. “That’s enough time.” 

“I need – ” Kyle’s voice cracks. 

“Do it.” 

The last strand snaps. Kyle pushes Nick back against the couch. A rush of liquid rises from him, a rush of heat floods his skin. He leans down, covering Nick’s mouth with his. Need makes him rougher than he would be usually; he kisses Nick hard. He bites at Nick’s lips, until Nick pulls away with a sudden gasp. Kyle looks down to see the tentacle wrapped around Nick’s cock. Blood-red and weeping, and Nick moaning without pause. 

Nick doesn’t stop when he comes, just changes in pitch. The sound gone quavering and unsteady, Kyle can feel the muscles of his thighs trembling. Kyle himself is a single point of heat and light. Unstoppable. Hurtling. 

Nick comes again, so slick between them now that Kyle slips with every movement. He clutches Nick’s sides when Nick’s hips buck under him. 

Kyle needs to be close to him. He lowers down so he can press his mouth to Nick’s throat, so he can rub his cheek against Nick’s cheek. And even the roughness, the sting is good. The smell of him, the taste of him is a thousand times stronger. He’s so close, it’s hard to tell where Kyle stops and Nick begins. So close, Kyle would swear he can feel the pounding of Nick’s pulse under his own skin. 

Nick’s eyes are closed, his whole face flushed. His lips, wet and glistening, fall open when Kyle presses inside him. 

The rush feels like falling, like being thrown forward. Kyle ducks his head back against Nick’s throat. His hips are moving on their own. His stomach muscles clenching on their own. And he can feel the weight inside him shifting, lowing. His whole center of balance dropping and focusing. 

Nick’s chest is rising and falling fast. Kyle curls the fingers of his hand through Nick’s. “Are you sure? Are you ready – ” 

Nick nods with head thrown back, sweat plastering his hair into spikes. He mouths the word yes. 

The tension in Kyle is a string being pulled taut – stretching, stretching impossibly far, until everything in him is vibrating, humming so hard he could shatter. 

Instead, the tension snaps all in one direction, a wave of contraction that feels like it starts in his toes and runs along his whole body, clamping down and propelling – forward. 

Nick moans. Kyle cups his face. Kyle is dizzy with a kind of awe: Nick’s body is so open, so connected to his. There’s no space between them. Another wave rolls through Kyle, he twangs, snaps again. Nick’s sounds have taken on a note of sobbing, tears rolling freely down the sides of his face. 

Kyle brushes them away. He kisses Nick’s lips, carefully now. They’re cracked and raw and so, so red. He holds Nick, and they ride the next wave together. Shivering, shuddering, the weakening rise of Nick’s hips as his body orgasms again. And Kyle, just doing his best now to hold on. 

Kyle loses count of how many time they rise and fall forward together. He loses track of time. The room is darker when the need finally ebbs, and he slips, spent, from Nick. The fire has died down to embers, and the world outside the window is dark and still, nothing visible but the ghostly swirl of falling snow. 

Kyle moves away, but he doesn’t go far. He retreats just enough to be able to see Nick’s eyes, whites glinting in what light remains. Kyle pulls a blanket down off the back of the couch, covering them both. He’s drained. Even the small movement to collect the blanket takes effort. His limbs feel like they’re tied down with rocks. 

Nick’s expression is blissful. He smiles a sleepy, heavy-lidded smile at Kyle. Kyle twines their fingers together, and after a moment, Nick slides their joined hands over his stomach – pressed out. Round and full. 

Heat flickers again in Kyle. Not exactly the same maddening drive as before, but a sense of rightness, of accomplishment. Running his hands over Nick, settled here next to him, feels good. The warmth of his body so close, the contentment on his face makes a heady feeling of pride rise up in Kyle. Pride, and an overwhelming sense of love. 

 

 

They make it to the bedroom at some point in the night. Kyle remembers less about the walk then he does about curling around Nick. Pressing against him and inside him again from behind. Biting down on Nick’s shoulder, an arm curled protective over Nick’s belly. 

He wakes like that, too. Blinks into consciousness sated and filled with a drowsy warmth, even though the glass of the window is frosted over, the sill hidden under a thick buildup of snow, and his arm draped carefully around Nick. 

Kyle rubs his face against the nape of Nick’s neck, and Nick shifts, turning towards him sleepily. He kisses Kyle with a lazy warmth. Kyle kisses him back, kisses him again, kisses his cheek and his throat, and the corner of his mouth, until he can feel Nick’s smile, until he can feel Nick’s whole body turning towards him, opening to him. 

When they finally separate, Nick settles sprawled on his back. A soft smile on his face, his eyes still closed. Kyle props himself on one elbow to watch him. He grins at Nick’s expression, then he rolls to look at the clock on the nightstand. 

Nick must feel the bed dip, because he makes a grumbling noise, and his hand reaches out to catch Kyle’s arm. “Don’t leave.” 

Kyle moves back towards him. “I’m not leaving yet, but I’m gonna have to call them eventually. And then I’m gonna have to leave – ” 

“No.” 

“Or someone is gonna have to come here.” 

Nick frowns without opening his eyes. “No.” 

Kyle sighs. 

Nick cracks one eye open to look at Kyle. “At least – not yet.” One hand moves to rest on his belly, the other intertwines with Kyle’s. “I don’t want anybody here yet. I don’t want to think about anything outside yet.” 

He looks good like this, his heavy, gravid form. His face flushed and eyes sleepy. The rush of warmth Kyle feels this time has everything to do with Nick. He kisses Nick again, first his chapped lips, and then he moves down to the uneven rise of Nick’s stomach. The skin is pressed out in uneven rounds, like a hillside studded with round stones. Kyle presses his lips to each of these, feels the tautness of Nick’s skin, the firmness that says something is hidden just beneath. 

It should feel strange, Kyle thinks. It should be frightening – this wholly unplanned, off-script thing. 

But the panic that should be there, isn’t. Kyle closes his eyes, rests his cheek against Nick’s stomach. He listens to Nick draw breath, and the rush of blood, and all the evidence of life and the incredible thing they did together. 

 

 

There’s no bathtub in the cabin, so Nick makes a place for himself to birth in the shower, awkwardly arranging himself so that his legs can extend out the shower door, and padding the shower floor with an old foam pool float. 

Kyle surveys the scene. The anxiety that wasn’t there earlier is starting to manifest as an itchy, distressed feeling under his skin. Nick’s position looks so haphazard. They should have planned this better. They should have planned this at all. If something happens to Nick, it would take at least an hour for someone to get to them, and the eggs – the eggs that are currently so safe inside him are going to come out. They’ll be vulnerable and exposed to the elements, and Kyle has sudden visions of the roof collapsing, or the bucket that’s supposed to hold them tipping over. He has visions of shells tearing open and the life inside crushed. 

He paces in front of Nick, watching Nick arrange and shuffle the padding underneath him. “Can I bring you anything else? Are you sure you’re alright? This is so – ” Kyle stops. There’s a fluttering sensation under his breastbone. His eyes race over the setup again: it’s so uncertain, unofficial, unplanned, un-prepped-for. “ – untidy,” he finishes. 

Nick smiles up at him, a wry twist. He shifts on his side. He’s been shifting and restless all day, unable to sit or lie still. “When has anything we’ve done been neat or tidy?” 

He sounds calm. Maybe even pleased with himself, lying there awkwardly, smiling up at Kyle with one hand resting on the sharp rise of his stomach, and Kyle stills, proud in spite of himself. 

When the eggs pass, Kyle marvels at the shuddering strain of Nick’s body, and he catches each one in careful, cupped hands. He transfers each one to the water they’ve prepped in the largest bucket they could find. Letting each one slip from his hands so slow and careful that his fingers prune in the water. They’re tougher than he imagined, the leathery shells don’t deform as he holds them, and they submerge and settle easily. 

Kyle still holds them like grenades, like something explosive, and with the power to transform a whole life. 

 

 

Kyle slips away when Nick falls asleep. Even with Nick safely passed out on the bed, the bucket of eggs just beside him, it still takes Kyle three tries to leave the room. 

Each time he starts to go, he lingers in the doorway, looking back, and the pull to stay close is like tug at the center of his chest. 

He eventually manages, and dials the NHL standing by the front windows, watching the snow come down. He’d long since lost the card they gave him that contained the direct line to the department he’s trying to reach, so it takes him a couple awkward minutes with a front-desk receptionist to get connected. But once he finally is, Kyle is suddenly at a loss for what to say. He presses his free hand to the window and watches the glass fog around it. “We did the – I did the – the thing, I was supposed to do.” 

The chipper voice on the other end of the line congratulates him. “That’s wonderful. How many viable eggs are there?” 

“Seven.” He and Nick had counted them a dozen times. A hundred times. Staring down into the water, mesmerized by the dark shapes flickering within their translucent shells. 

“Seven! That’s wonderful. Alright, what happens is this, I’ll get your address from you, and then we’ll get in touch with the local collection crew. Then I’ll call you back to confirm a pick up time. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.” 

“Thank you,” Kyle says, hands over the information, and ends the call. 

He sits, phone clutched in his hand. But it doesn’t ring. He has a pile of unread text messages – from Curt, from the rest of his family – but Kyle ignores them in favor of staring at the phone clutched in his hand. Waiting for it to ring. 

Ten minutes pass. Longer. It gets harder to sit still. It gets harder to stay away from the back bedroom that holds Nick and the eggs, and Kyle is torn between how much he wants to be back there with them, and how much he doesn’t want a suddenly ringing phone to disturb Nick. 

He doesn’t want anything to disturb Nick. 

When he can’t stand it anymore, he turns the ringer off, and tiptoes back to the bedroom. 

Nick is still sprawled across the bed, sleeping the sleep of the deeply exhausted. The eggs are still in the bucket by the bed. Kyle creeps near enough that he can look down at them. Seven. Still there. He retreats back to the bedroom doorway. The doorway feels like a good compromise: he can see Nick and the eggs, and he can move away quickly if the phone call comes. 

Half an hour comes and passes. 

Despite his decision to remain in the doorway, Kyle creeps back into the room, close enough to count those seven round shapes. Close enough to watch the steady rise and fall of Nick’s chest. 

The phone lights up in his hand and sends him sprinting on tiptoe out of the room. He answers with a quick, whispered greeting, already heading for the other side of the cabin, just to be safe. Trying to be as quiet as he can, so he won’t disturb Nick. 

The voice on the phone is less chipper now. “I’m so sorry – the roads in your area are closed. Were you aware of that?” 

Kyle looks out the window, at the snow still coming down. He hasn’t even thought about the outside world in – forever. “Closed?” 

“We’re going to be unable to send a collection crew for the eggs.” 

Kyle’s attention is riveted back to the phone. “What does that mean? How are we going to get them to you?” 

The voice hesitates. “Listen. The good news is that you’re young. This breeding being so successful is an excellent sign for future clutches.” 

Kyle’s throat closes. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. “What are you saying?” 

“The best thing to do in this situation is to put the eggs in the freezer. Growth is arrested instantly. They’ll – become unviable.” 

“They’ll die,” Kyle repeats. 

“It’s painless.” 

Kyle’s legs feel unsteady underneath him. Just down the hall, just in the other side of the cabin, Nick is asleep. Kyle can picture his face, exhausted. Triumphant. Something tightens in his chest. “No. I don’t want to do that.” 

“It’s really the best thing,” she says, very gently. “Post hatch, the ephyra require a very specific balance of salts and trace minerals. It’s unlikely you could keep them alive. And prolonged exposure to a clutch has been known to bring about increasingly severe mate guarding behaviors. The nesting behaviors alone are – ” She trails off. “What matters is you’re young. You will have other clutches – ” 

Kyle hangs up. 

He stares out the window. The thick blanket of white now seems ominous. Dangerous. Kyle can feel the drumbeat of wild panic, just under his skin. He picks up the phone again. He texts Curt. 

_I need you._

 

 

Kyle settles gingerly on the bed. Nick stirs. His first act is to look first over the edge of the bed at the bucket. Then he grins at Kyle. The expression dissolves into a yawn, and Nick stretches, blinks sleepily, and then, as if he’s only now brought Kyle’s expression into focus, he frowns. “What’s wrong?” 

Kyle takes a breath and swallows. “The roads are closed.” 

Nick looks out the window, and then back. “So?” 

“So the NHL can’t send anyone to come get the eggs.” He hesitates. “They said to put them in the freezer.” 

“No.” Nick moves before Kyle has even finished speaking. He’s up and curving his body around the bucket. Putting himself between them and the world. And, Kyle realizes with horror, putting himself between them and Kyle. 

Nick’s terror is like a knife that stabs into him. “I said no. I said we wouldn’t.” 

Nick stares at him, wide-eyed and unblinking, and Kyle swears he can feel the rapid patter of Nick’s heart in his own chest. “I said no,” he repeats, trying to put into his voice that he would never allow it. That he would never allow anything to happen to them or to Nick. 

Nick’s posture eases, just a little. 

“We’ll figure something else out.” Kyle lowers down, edging closer to Nick and the eggs, and to his tremendous relief, Nick doesn’t pull them away. “Curt’s going to bring us some things. We’ll be okay.” 

Nick blinks at him, as if he’s hearing the words, but they don’t make sense. Or as if his attention is elsewhere. He finally focuses on Kyle, and manages a nod. “Okay.” Then his gaze shifts again. He says, “We’re going to need to bring the other mattress in here.” 

 

 

Kyle surveys the bedroom with satisfaction. Nick has pulled the mattress from its frame and placed it on the floor, next to the bucket. Kyle dragged the mattress from the second bedroom in, placing it perpendicular to the first, so that the two fully enclose the bucket in a corner of the room. They augmented these with the extra quilts and pillows from the linen closet, and the towels Nick swiped from the bathroom. 

Kyle makes several passes through the living room, grabbing the pillows and cushions from the couch and chairs, and rounding up every stray blanket he can find. 

Nick is busy stacking and arranging these items around the bucket. Moving them around in an obsessive fashion, first one cushion, then another, then stepping away for a moment to stare, then shifting everything again, like he’s looking for the solution to some great, soft puzzle. 

Kyle hands over the last blanket, which Nick tucks lovingly around the base of the bucket. The bucket is the center of a very soft mound now, placed in the corner of the room furthest from the door. Kyle’s eyes travel from the door to the windows, when light and a draft spills into the room. He frowns. “We can put the box spring in front of the window.” 

For half a beat after they leave his lips, the words sound strange, and he hesitates to move, wavering. It should feel strange to want to cover to the windows; he should ask why he wants the room so dark and quiet, when he hasn’t ever wanted it before. 

Nick looks up, his eyes follow Kyle’s gaze to the window, and he nods once, his voice very firm when he says, “Yes. Good. That makes sense.” 

With the window covered, nothing can bother Nick. Nick won’t be disturbed by anything outside. Nick will be safe. 

His doubt and confusion are gone, and Kyle hefts the box spring into place. A cool darkness falls over the room, and any lingering uncertainty is replaced with a tremendous sense of satisfaction. The room is good. The room is a cool, dark, hidden place for Nick. For Nick and their eggs. 

Nick arranges himself next to the bucket, thigh pressed along it’s plastic side, barred from touching the water and the eggs by the physical barrier. Kyle experiences a spike of fury. He hates the bucket. The eggs should not be in a bucket. They should be in a dark, deep, safe place, and Nick shouldn’t be trapped on the other side of some plastic wall, he should be there with them. And Kyle will be at the mouth of the cave, and he will stop anyone or anything that tries to intrude. 

Nick looks at him sharply, like he can hear the sudden aggression in Kyle’s thoughts, like he can feel Kyle’s spark of anger. He blinks at Kyle. He says nothing, but Kyle can feel the edge of his anger dulling, replaced by something soothing and cool. 

_Here. Safe. Good. Nest._

“More soft things.” Nick has tucked himself into place now, settled so deep in the nest it would be difficult if not impossible for him to move. “Small, soft things.” 

Kyle makes another pass through the rest of the cabin. He’s already pulled the curtains from the front windows. He’s considered but dismissed the scratchy floor mat. Looking around, the pickings are scarce, and he feels a sudden deep well of longing for sand. They should have good, soft, clean sand. 

But they don’t. They don’t have any more pillows either. Why don’t they have more pillows? Right now, Kyle would give his entire NHL paycheck for more throw pillows. Inspiration hits – he’s taken the towels already, but not the dish towels. He pulls the drawer open and studies the dish towels with an intensity he’s never given them before, never even considered he could give. He discards any that feel too rough. He holds them close to his nose and casts off any that carry even a hit of the smell of mold. The rest, he brings to Nick. 

Nick accepts his gift, looking from the towels to Kyle as reverently as if Kyle were presenting him with pure gold. “Thank you,” he says fervently. 

“Of course,” Kyle says, and he means it. “I’ll be here,” he says, and tips his head towards his place in the doorway. 

Nick’s eyes are already back on the eggs, his fingers trailing through the water. “Good.” 

 

 

Nick sleeps, but Kyle isn’t tired. He doesn’t need to eat. He doesn’t need to sleep. Every half hour, he gets up and walks the perimeter of the house, looking behind each door, and out each window. He has no clock and no watch, but something inside him ticks off the minutes, and every so often, prompts him into motion. After his circuit, he comes back to the doorway and waits. 

Every corner of the cabin and every window’s sightlines become familiar. The scenery is somehow sharper and more vivid than ever before, and Kyle feels certain he can see every individual needle on the pine trees, every shadow in the snow, the outline of every black twig. 

He spots a rustling in the branches of the oak by the deck and freezes. Only after a late-venturing squirrel emerges does he start to breathe again, and only then does he realize he’d been ready to bolt for the door. Ready to run outside and intercept whatever threat might have been hiding in the trees, before it could get to Nick. 

He loses track of how many rounds he’s made, but the sun is crawling toward the western horizon when his circuit is interrupted by the creaking, shuffling sound of approaching footsteps through snow. 

The sound of a knock at the front door gives him a jolt of terror sharper and sicker than anything he’s felt before. A tide of anxiety washes over him. The feeling is his, or Nick’s, or his and Nick’s, because Nick’s eyes are riveted in the direction of the sound. He’s trembling. 

Kyle soothes him with a thought. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.” And in his mind, he can feel Nick’s panic edge back. 

Kyle can hear the creak of steps on the front porch boards a rage crawls under his skin – that someone is here. That someone is this close. They should not be this close and they should not have made noise and they _should not_ have bothered Nick. 

Very calmly, Kyle moves down the hall. He will go to the kitchen. He’ll get a knife. And whoever is at the door, if they try to come inside, he’ll kill them. Satisfied with the logic of this plan, he moves forward. 

Almost at once, he sees Curt through the window, his hands cupped to the glass as he tries to peer inside. 

Kyle’s rage falters. He stands in the middle of the front room, blinking, waiting for his heart rate to slow. 

Curt knocks again, then he waves at Kyle through the window. 

The second knock causes a throbbing pulse of alarm in the back of his mind, from the direction of the nest. “It’s Curt,” Kyle says. “It’s just Curt.” He takes a slow, deep breath. Just Curt – and now he’s repeating the words to himself – just his brother. 

Cautiously, he opens the door. 

Curt starts talking right away. “What the fuck? You send me two texts and then you stop answering your phone completely?” Curt peers over his shoulder, into the cabin. “Why are all the lights off? Where is – ” He takes a step forward. 

The instinct to shove him back, to hurt him enough that he can’t come closer is so strong and arises so suddenly that Kyle has to grit his teeth, has to lock his fingers together in front of him to keep his hands from striking. “You can’t come in.” 

Curt gapes at him. “Are you kidding me? I just walked three miles in the snow. To bring you this.” He jerks a thumb roughly back at the plastic kiddie pool behind him, loaded down with two cartons labeled with brightly colored fish, which must be the salt. “Do you have any idea how many places I had to go to find a place selling kiddie pools in December? And then, just to find an aquarium store that was even _open_ – ” 

“I love you,” Kyle’s voice shakes. And then, as calmly as he can, “But if you come any closer I might try to hurt you.” 

Curt’s eyes go wide. 

Kyle swallows. The rage and the fear have lessened now that Curt has stopped trying to come inside, but his thoughts are still tangled. 

“Are you – ” Curt’s voice is very hesitant now. “I know you and Nick – ” He looks uncomfortable for a moment. “But, are you alright?” 

Kyle hesitates. None of this was planned. None of this was expected. A million things could have gone wrong; a million more still could. But he can feel a spark of hope in his mind. A growing flicker of certainty. “Yes. Nick and I are dealing with it.” 

Whatever shows in his face convinces Curt to step back. “Okay. Call me – I guess call me when you can? Call me if you need anything.” 

 

 

Even before they hatch, the eggs make sounds. A pitch so high and so soft, Kyle thinks he’s imagining it at first, or that it’s just white noise. 

The nest has been re-arranged around the pool, and since then Nick hasn’t moved. He is motionless beside it, gazing into the water, trailing his fingers through it. 

“Is the water okay?” Kyle asks from the doorway. 

Nick nods without looking up. “They’re fine.” 

Nick is held entranced by the tiny, swaying motions of the eggs in the water. Every so often, he dips his hand in to turn them, pushing them this way or that, changing their spacing. Even when not touching them, he stays with his hand resting flat on the surface of the water, as if he can hear them better that way. 

A pulse of jealous longing fills Kyle. More than anything, Kyle wants to be right next to Nick. He wants to submerge his hands in that cool water, to watch the eggs and the shapes inside that hour by hour are growing darker and more distinct. 

But not for anything in the world would he leave his spot in the doorway. 

Nick’s love rushes into him, like a tidal wave that runs up his spine and makes a warm flood in his mind. Love and pride and trust. “You watch the world,” Nick says in his head, “And I will watch the eggs for both of us.” He pauses, then adds, as if Kyle didn’t already know, “They are so, so beautiful.” 

 

 

One is black, spikey and crablike. One has long, filmy tendrils that trail after it in the water. One is a perfect bell shape that slides around the pool with rapid squeezing motions. One pulses faint but clear bioluminescence. One is so many layers of swirling, translucent veils that Kyle is not sure what solid shape lies at the core. One has a dozen delicate arms, covered in barbs almost too fine to see. And one chases after the others, changing its color to match theirs, or mimicking the light blue of the pool bottom, disappearing then reappearing somewhere else, as if by magic. 

Each is small enough to fit in Kyle’s cupped hands. 

Nick had called him over at the first, high-pitched chirp, and caught his hand, and drew him close. 

Now, both of their hands are submerged in the pool. The water buzzes as if laced with an electric field, and it makes the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rise. 

Some are eager to explore. Their fluttering movements carry them around the edge of the pool. The one with barbs is fascinated by Nick’s hand, poking at it over and over, with impressive dedication. 

The one with tendrils is shier, and stays hidden behind Kyle’s arm. Shifting with him anytime Kyle moves. 

“We ought to call that one after Curt,” Nick says, nodding at the creature who even now is tucked as close as possible to Kyle’s wrist. “It’s the least we can do after you threatened to kill him.” 

Kyle grins and rests his head on Nick’s shoulder. He watches as Nick feeds them chunks of raw venison, and they take it from his fingers with perfect, delicate caution, poison-tipped, hooked barbs brushing his skin harmlessly. Colors blooming and racing jubilant on the surface of their limbs. Kyle can feel the vibrations of Nick purring to them. The tiny answering burbles of joy. Here and safe. Theirs and loved. 

“The NHL won’t get these ones,” Nick says. “Not ours.” 

Kyle nods and closes his eyes. 

He imagines taking them home. He imagines for them the cool, shaded space under the dock behind Nick’s house. 

And then, they’ll have all the great expanse of the oceans to unfurl into. That great space, that dark dream, and a hundred thousand possibilities to explore. 

Into that, they’ll go fearlessly. Into that, they’ll go knowing they’re loved. 

 

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy these [inspiring images](http://www.nationalgeographic.com/photography/proof/2017/06/secret-world-of-plankton/), and also [ sounds.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFfciCu8wY8)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Something Unlike the Prime Directive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14264871) by [shihadchick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick)




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